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Awesome: 'BAD ASS' by The Lovely Bastard

Just a reminder that I am, in fact, a bad person so that'll pop up in the way this story is told.

This was an incall, and she was in a semi-decent apartment complex in northeast Philly. Not the most terrible area, but you ain't seeing any Rockefellers moving in, either. The first thing I noticed was that her building elevator had an out of order sign on it that had clearly been there for a while. The tape was browner than the sludge MBL players spit out they face during an intense staring session. Now, normally, no one would pay no mind, but I am a bastard and this broad was on the tenth floor, so I immediately have to wonder how her stubby little legs get up and down these steps with any ease. Then I wonder if this is why she only does incalls. It seems to make sense.

I get up to her floor, and nothing really is stirring or doing anything fancy. She answers the door dressed, actually, quite interestingly. Not what I am used to. I think she is trying to go for a girlfriend experience spiel because she's wearing a wife beater and her hair is all a mess. The problem being, I guess they didn't have her size, so this wife beater has become some sort of experimental white trash summer dress, as whatever else she was wearing was engulfed in this shirt. I hand her the money and she leads me inside.

Now in-calls in an apartment fall into two categories. With the prettier or more in demand type ladies, you will notice right off the bat that this apartment is not where they live. It almost will feel like a parody of where you think a hooker would live: neon everything, a gigantic bed (usually water) that is covered in silk sheets with feathery shit all about, sex gizmos in every dang nook and cranny of the place, a hot tub, a massage table, an entire drawer of neatly organized condoms of various shapes, thickness, and flavors, and, of course, a comically well-stocked bar. This is the type of apartment where fantasies come true.

On the flip-side, you'll get the ladies that specialize in GFE, borrow someone else's place, or just plain like using their own apartments because they trust security enough that you are very clearly in a place a real person would actually live. This is were Ms. Caramel lived. Yes that is what she went by this time. You'll find with a lot of escorts, if they put Ms. in front of their name, it will change on a whim.

My eyes start scanning the room and it is rather mundane. I mean there is low to the ground furniture and cabinets and the like, and there are some sex toys about, but it is not like I am in some funhouse fuckery. Except for this one thing. Out of the corner of my eye I catch the glint of something. She is busy making me a drink (pro-tip, never sleep with an in-call escort that doesn't offer to make you a drink...just, trust me on this), so of course I investigate. I paid good money for this after all. And, behind her couch, I shit you not.

Homemade.

Chain mail.

Leather.

Dwarven Armor.

The kicker being that the breast piece has cut outs for the boobs. Lying next that piece? Spiked nipple tassles. Straight up poke your eye out Heavy Metal nipple spikes.

Before I can even finish asking the question she tells me that yes, that is an actual thing she would wear. She tries to phrase it in a way where she is half-explaining it and half offering it as a thing we could do, and I am have a dilemma. I know for sure I will never bang a lady geared up to slay dragons because, well, the irony of that would literally kill me, but I kinda wanna pry more and see how far I can get her to go with this.

I see a look in her eye that tells me she really doesn't wanna put on that costume, so instead I just ask her where the hell it came from, as from her hard ghetto accent, she surely ain't going to no ren faires. I get her to spill that a regular made this for her, and that, yes, there have been plenty of other costumes. Now I really need to know who's been banging Ewoks or ALFs, but when she pulls out the egg-timer and sets it, I know that, hey, maybe I don't wanna pursue this line of inquiry any further.

Now, being a gentleman I am not going to describe in lewd detail all the sex acts I done committed. That would be churlish, plus you already got the gist of what I paid for. I will say I popped thrice, and had the grandest time. I will just say I know now what it feels like to be climbed like a mountain. To be an object tackled and conquered sexually. And it is amazing. I highly recommend it.

Anyway, after three pops, I have maybe two minutes left. Now comes the moment of truth. Post-coitus with an escort comes in many forms. Most of the time, msog ends with the lady congratulating your prowess for popping x amount of times and still going. She is tempted to see if you can go more (No she isn't really tempted. She just wants more money).

For the standard hour aka one and done, things are different. If it is an out-call (where they come to you), a lot of times they will just get dressed and get gone, because time is money. If it is a sex pad in-call, a sales pitch to buy extra time is right around the corner. Hotel in-calls almost always end in a sexy shower. They also begin that way. Hotel escorts are very particular about this. When you get to the GFE/someone lives here end things can get a little hazy. Kicking you out clearly won't help repeat business, but a girlfriend isn't exactly gonna say HEY DO MORE SEX GIVE MONEY FOR SEX over and over again either. So, there's kind of an unspoken agreement that, until that buzzer rings, you are going to pretend to actually know and care about each other.

This is also known as fishing for more tips. And before you ask, yes, you tip an escort. Any lady can give a blowie, but it's how you get the blowie and the little flares in the blowie you reward with extra cash. Also it builds a relationship. A tip here, a gift there, and maybe you get a little extra time. Maybe the menu expands. Maybe she puts more oomph into it the next time. Just like having a real girlfriend.

Back to the point. I am finished. My body can do no more, despite my energizer bunny hard-on that refuses to lie down. It is like my dick's Rambo and fuckin' is the Vietnam War.

Anyway, I'm laying there, completely exhausted. I straight up tell her that it's gonna take me a few minutes to catch my breath here, so can just turn the timer off. The goalie can be pulled, the game is over, and I am bad at hockey puns because I don't quite understand the rules. She brings me a whiskey on the rocks and a bottle of pedialyte and I ask her why she has some around. Says a john brought her over some. She keeps it around because it helps with hangovers. We share a brief bonding moment over this shared cure, but then my brain immediately goes to a dark place: I picture someone paying her to act like a sick baby and being all "Here have some pedialyte. Okay now have some cock."

Look, she brought up the costumes, man.

Then we just talk about whatever bullshit I can think of. Simply because, she's paid to like me, so I will see how many of my ridiculous interests she can pretend to tolerate or care about. So I talk about The Incredible Hulk. Chances are, if I am really bored and wanna kill some time, I will start talking about the Hulk. Nothing in particular, just an excuse to end every sentence with "no, see, because the madder Hulk gets the stronger Hulk gets." It's childish, I know, but come on, you think of better things to talk about with someone you just paid to defile. And, to be fair, sometimes I substitute the Hulk with an excuse to have a conversation end with "because, you see, other bands play, MANOWAR KILL."

I have admittedly done that with bros here too. I even turned it into a pun for @stale. You gotta realize, I only talk to amuse myself, guys.

Anyway, so, I kill time, and get my requisite "sad walking away music" joke done as I head out the door, slippin' Caramel a fiddy spot before I go on my way. As I'm leaving, an elderly gentleman with an unusually large, brown paper bag passes by me. He has to be about 55, 60ish and he's lookin' hella skeeved. I stop where I am and listen for a second.

A knock.

Ms. Caramel's voice.

The sound of a brown paper bag being crumpled and rustled through.

And what I swear was the voice of a butch, elderly Vincent Price coming from what had to be the old man.

No wonder I want to wrap you up and take you home
I'm looking forward to the chance to meet again, but then again it all depends
Suddenly I'm not so sure that intentions can be pure
If I could just throw all my doubts into the wind I think that they'd come back again